


Bad Hot Chocolate is Always Wasted

by krysiebee



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Leans towards Pre-slash to be honest, M/M, can be taken as Gen or Pre-Slash, mentions of divorce, mentions of illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 20:19:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9140704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krysiebee/pseuds/krysiebee
Summary: He isn’t affected by the cold, but there’s something about Gotham that unsettles him, so he usually stays away.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Oooh God. This fucking thing. This fic has been sitting in my documents folder for maybe a year? A bit longer? Anyway its been begging to be edited, which i've been doing disjointedly for months now. I had put up the original a long time ago but took it down because i decided on second glance that i hated it. but here it is again, edited! so, yay. I may or may not continue it. To be honest your feedback kind of decides if do. Eh, I dunno. 
> 
> Oh, and to that one commenter who had told me to re-evaluate this fic the first time i put it up: thank you. i really, really did need to do that. Even if it pained me to hear it.
> 
> Anyway guys, I hope you enjoy it, comments are appreciated, and I wish you all a happy and healthy new year.
> 
> Edit: So apparently the first time i edited this i was delirious because there were TONS of mistakes left and i don't even know okay? I don't know what i was thinking. Anyway, I apologize for any awkward sentences left, but i'm fairly certain most of the grammar mistakes have been defeated.

**The wind howls around them,** colouring Bruce’s pale cheeks an uneven splotchy pink, and pressing his long wool coat against his legs. One flank of Clark’s own thin suit jacket clings wetly to his side, and the other he has to awkwardly press down with his arm.

Gotham’s autumn weather is arguably the least pleasant for the city, no reds or golds in sight, just murky grays and gloomy off-whites. Today is no different, terrible with its bone chilling coldness. Worse than usual maybe, but that might be Clark’s Kansas raised bias showing. He isn’t affected by the cold, but there’s something about Gotham that unsettles him, so he usually stays away.

But today is different. Today he was invited, and so here he is. In Gotham, in the rain, and in front of a gravestone.

Bruce doesn’t look particularly bothered by it, the gravestone or the weather, but when his eyes flicker, dark and thunderous like the sky above, Clark politely allows him the excuse of the weather.

He doesn’t know why he’s here, why Bruce, who is usually so reserved, and even more so in the face of any probing into his private life, would choose to bring him _here._ Truthfully, it’s because he doesn’t know where he stands with Bruce or Batman. And this move makes him feel like he’s peering into the mouth of an old mine shaft, deep and dark, and dangerous.

“I don’t come here often anymore,” Bruce says, as they stare solemnly at the large gravestone, the words Thomas and Martha Wayne carefully inscribed in san-script on the faded granite. “At least, not like I used to.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“Too busy for my parents?”

“That’s not what I – I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know,” scoffs Bruce, shaking his head. He smirks slightly. “You just make it so easy.”

Clark sighs, steadily rising frustration like a migraine in the back of his head. Bruce is difficult on a good day, but today he’s being purposefully exasperating. He wants to ask why he’s here, but he’s afraid to. Afraid to break this surreal tether of trust Bruce has extended him. 

So he stays silent, uses the opportunity to look at Bruce more closely without the mask between them. He notes the unkempt hair, and messy stubble that is usually kept immaculately groomed. The shadowy rings under Bruce’s eyes, and the tired slope of his body. Bruce is usually so carefully composed. But he hasn’t slept in a long while, that much is certain. His iron control of his emotions finally fraying at the edges, spilling over just enough for Clark to glimpse at the man underneath. It’s a temptation too much for even him to pass up.

Clark cannot help but be worried, and cannot help but express it. His eyebrows knit in the middle and he purses his lip. “Bruce…is something wrong?”

“Alfred’s ill,” Bruce says. The wind sweeping his hair into his eyes makes him look oddly young, like a child. “He’s in the hospital.”

Clark’s eyes widen. “Rao…is he going to be alright?”

Bruce gazes at him steadily, eyes suspiciously bright. “The doctors say it’s from too much stress.  He’ll recover, but that kind of pain doesn’t disappear overnight. It could come back at any time.”

“I’m so sorry, Bruce,” Clark says, sincerely.

He wants to comfort him but doesn’t know how to. Bruce hates physical contact, and if there are words that would make him feel better, they elude Clark. He can’t help but feel at a loss. Two years of working together, and he still knows next to nothing about Bruce Wayne.

On top of that too, he feels guilty for not noticing Alfred’s illness.

(Then again, thinking of Alfred’s indomitable composure, Clark isn’t all that surprised it escaped his own notice). Although there was a moment the last time he was in the Batcave, that he had thought Alfred had looked a little frail, he had dismissed this as his own penchant for worrying. Clark internally winces, knowing without asking that it must have also escaped Bruce.  As equally remarkable as it is tragic, it must be eating him alive –it’s no wonder he looks so unhealthy. Licking his lips, Clark realizes that Bruce is waiting for him to say something more, watching him intently with an expression that he couldn’t decipher if his life depended on it.

Clark shifts awkwardly, and crosses his arms to hide his discomfort. His suit jacket parachutes backwards in the wind like a cape. “I’m sorry,” he says again, feeling like a useless, broken record. “If there’s anything I can do…”

But Bruce shakes his head.

“Let’s go inside.”

Bruce starts down the winding path back toward the mansion, and Clark trails behind him, hands fisted in his pockets. They walk through the reinforced steel gate, across the gravel, and through the absurdly large coffee-coloured doors in silence, Clark mindlessly watching the muddied bottom of Bruce’s pants most of the way. Inside, Bruce shrugs off his jacket, but doesn’t invite Clark to do the same, and doesn’t say anything at all until they’re in the kitchen. He takes out two mugs from a cabinet and a tin of cocoa powder.

Clark, who has always felt out of place in the Manor, looks around to distract himself.

Without Alfred’s presence, the mansion is vast and lonely. Full of ghosts and memories that don’t belong to Clark, but make him feel uncomfortable anyways. He understands, with deepening clarity, why Bruce often prefers to sleep in his penthouse.

The kitchen however, is surprisingly cozy. Small and softly lit; warmer than the rest of the house in more than just temperature. It has a small dark oak breakfast table against one wall that reminds Clark of his ma’s back in Kansas, a series of dark chestnut cupboards over an old looking stove, and refurbished granite counter top. The newest thing in the room looks to be the refrigerator, which is chrome.

Clark is surprised, and he can’t help but wonder how much of Bruce’s childhood was spent here after his parents died. He can vividly picture a solemn, ten year-old Bruce sitting at the table, kicking his legs as Alfred made them dinner, and thought makes him smile just a little.

Bruce waves a careless hand towards the table, so Clark takes a seat and entertains himself with watching Bruce putter around. The scene is strangely domestic. He realizes with a start, that Bruce must have rolled up his pants and taken off his shoes and socks when he wasn’t looking. Combined with his unkempt hair and hiked up sleeves, Clark can almost believe he’s looking at a different man. Still, Bruce’s aura, a Molotov cocktail of melancholy and cold competence could not be shaken away by such superficial changes.

Bruce glances at him out of the corner of his eye and snorts. Clark raises his eyebrows questioningly, sure that Bruce can’t read minds, when Bruce takes a dishtowel out of a bottom cupboard and lops it over his shoulder. Without thinking Clark catches it, glancing at the delicate floral pattern. At the same time it occurs to him that he probably looks like a wet stray dog.

“Oh. Thanks,” he says graciously, although he isn’t sure the towel will do much for his drenched shirt and jacket.

Bruce shrugs, leaning on the counter with his profile towards Clark, facing the small window above the sink. Falling leaves caught in the wind and rain smack helplessly against the glass. Bruce’s reflection is water-coloured in mud browns and faded maroon, droplets of rain clinging to the glass distorting it. Bruce drums his fingers softly against the tin of cocoa powder. Then he opens it, and grabs a spoon from the draining board.

“If my parents never died,” he muses thoughtfully, pouring two spoons of cocoa powder carefully into two mugs. “I’d probably be married. With a job in my father’s company, and maybe even children. Batman wouldn’t exist. What do you think of that?”

Clark chooses his words carefully. “I think that it would be a different world,” he replies, watching Bruce as he walks to the fridge.

“It’s what Alfred always wanted for me. A normal life. Happiness.” Bruce takes out a carton and pours milk into each cup. “Even when I did the opposite of what he wanted –brought shame onto my family’s legacy, put myself at risk –he still holds onto the hope that one day I’ll settle down. End my mission.”

 _Oh Bruce_ is what Clark thinks immediately, but he knows that Bruce isn’t looking for pity and would probably be insulted by it. So he says: “I’m sure Alfred is proud of everything you’ve accomplished.”

Bruce hums in response, though Clark cannot tell whether or not he agrees. He puts the cups in the microwave, and the spoon into the sink.

“Perhaps,” Bruce concedes, though not looking at him, staring at the cups spinning to the burr of the appliance. It beeps after a quiet moment, and Bruce continues. “But he’s always been too good to me. Even when I put the mission before everything else - even him - he stood by my side. He should have left.”

Clark frowns. “Of course not. Bruce, Alfred loves you. He would never leave you.”

“But that’s not the point,” Bruce snaps, suddenly aggravated.

Clark scans his face raptly, eyebrows furrowed with concern, but Bruce is already turning away from him, and for a long moment all Clark can see is his back. When he turns back around, Bruce’s face is studiously blank. Clark watches him grab the mugs, slip in the chair across from him, and slide over a steaming cup of hot chocolate.

A peace offering? Clark stares at it. Bruce drinks his own unreservedly, eyes trained steadily on Clark, who meets his gaze warily.

“You of all people are acutely aware of how dangerous our line of work is. How easy it is to lose people. It’s selfish of me to keep him around, and now he’s paying for it.”

Clark flinches, but holds his ground.

“You can’t just force people out of your life, Bruce. That’s unfair and cruel. Alfred is a grown man, and I’m sure he knew exactly what he was getting into when he chose to stay after you became Batman.”

Bruce raises his eyebrows, at once impassive and appraising. He smiles thinly, without humour. “I’m surprised at you, Clark. That’s incredibly hypocritical coming from the man who divorced the woman he loves to protect her.”

“That’s not --you have no right to bring that up,” Clark retorts. “That’s none of your business.”

“But it proves my point,” Bruce persists, eyes cool and distancing. Clark feels his hands tighten into fists.

“Proves your point?” he repeats heatedly. “God, you know, you’re such an asshole? I’m trying to comfort you, and you bring up my divorce just because you can’t stand being wrong. I’ve never met someone so inconsiderate in my entire life!”

Clark’s voice raises above the thunder and shakes the air in its wake. Bruce gazes at him calmly and the room quiets, tense with their breathing and the pattering rain against the window. A small but audible crunch breaks the silence and they both look down to see Clark’s mug in shards and Clark’s hands dripping with hot chocolate, caked in clay dust. Clark jumps up immediately, and hurries to the garbage to dump the pieces, careful not drop any, and then, spotting still-warm liquid chocolate running fast towards the edge of the table, to the counter for paper towel.

Bruce rests his head in his palm, and continues his unreadable observation of Clark with lidded eyes. Clark's back is tense, and he tries his best to ignore him, but then Bruce is suddenly beside him, reaching across the counter, and Clark’s movements stutter to a halt. His fingers are caught half pulling the paper towel off the roll as Bruce pulls a wet cloth off the counter from between his arm and side. Behind them, hot chocolate drips occasionally onto the wooden floor, the smacking sound at dissonance with the rain outside, and the silence in.

“I’m sorry,” Clark says abruptly, causing Bruce to pause and look up at him. Clark tries to ignore the fact that they're in a strange tableau of a hug. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

Bruce smirks tightly and shakes his head.

“It’s fine,” he says dryly, straightening up. “We have other mugs.”

Clark opens his mouth to say _that wasn’t what I meant,_ but thinking better of it, simply nods. In the dim lighting, Bruce’s eyes are charcoal coloured, rich and dark. There is a strange sense of…something indistinct in them, and once again Clark is frustrated with himself for being unable to understand what it is. What he keeps missing. His head turns with Bruce as he brushes past him, back to the table. And when Bruce starts wiping, Clark follows with the paper towel and kneels down to clean the floor. They work together in silence until Bruce, out of the blue, asks if he wants a tour of the mansion.

And for some reason, despite work needing to be finished, and the rain, and the inkling that Bruce is playing some kind of game with him, Clark says _yes._

Yes, he would like that very much.

*

 

So they walk.

Bruce is mostly silent as they traverse the many darkened hallways of Wayne Manor, only occasionally speaking to say a few words about this portrait or that family heirloom as they pass them. Clark’s only mildly interested in the various artifacts, but he finds Bruce’s intimate knowledge of his family history poignant, even if he also finds the manor’s atmosphere as wanting warmth.

Clark pauses on a portrait of a man who bears a striking resemblance to Bruce. The same high cheekbones and aristocratic features; the same sharp jawline and thin but expressive mouth. The differences laid in the eyes; this man had hazel eyes, wide and good-humoured, unlike Bruce’s cool, deep blue. He realizes that this must be Bruce’s father, but before he can move on, Bruce comes beside him, stopping in front of it as well.

Lightly Bruce presses the tips of his fingers against the paint, and takes them off, rubbing together the residue sticking to them.

“You don’t like me very much, do you Clark?” he says matter-of-factly.

The non sequitur catches Clark off-guard, but he swallows his surprise before it can show on his face. Bruce’s eyes gleam unnervingly in the shadows of the manor, and Clark senses a morbid curiosity emanating off of him that raises his hackles, but knows better than to react defensively. Bruce sounds too deceptively casual, as though laying a trap. Clark wouldn’t put it past him.

“Well I won’t say I always like you,” he replies slowly, but quickly adds: “but I don’t dislike you either. To be honest, I don’t think I know you well enough to make a commitment to either option.”

“Hmm.” Bruce smiles one of his rare, real smiles, humoured around the edges and soft. Clark thinks that it suits him, the curves of his face, but as with all his moments of softness, the smile is quick, and gone without a trace a moment later. “But you trust me. You trust me enough to give me kryptonite.”

“Of course.”                   

Bruce quirks an eyebrow, and Clark shrugs, smiling.

“You’re a good man, Bruce. I know that you’d only use it if you had to. Besides,” he continues wryly, “you’d probably find a way to get it yourself even if I didn’t. So I figure: why not cut out the hard work and build some trust between us. Who knows, maybe one day we can even work our way up to friendship.”

“That would take a lot of kryptonite.” Bruce smirks.

“Maybe." Clark tips his head to the side playfully. "I think it’s worth it.”

Bruce looks at him incredulously. “Do you ever tire of being completely transparent?”

“Nope,” Clark replies easily. Then, thinking of his identities, and the little things he has to do to keep up a double, sometimes triple life, he adds, cheerfully: “It’s actually a nice change. You should try it.”

Bruce snorts, and looks outside the floor-to-ceiling window next to the portrait. The darkening sky rumbles over Gotham's skyscrapers in the distance and he shakes his head.

“It was a mistake bringing you here," he admits.

Clark’s smile dims and he rubs the back of his neck. “I see.”

“You asked for honest,” Bruce says.

“Yeah, I did,” Clark huffs, not quite a laugh because he can’t believe he’s here, in this situation. “Can I know where I went wrong?”

Bruce, with half his face hidden in the creeping darkness of the mansion, and the other half illuminated by light coming through the window, looks like a phantom. Edges blurred into the darkness, and sharpened in the light. Bruce’s lips curl over his teeth, flatten into a fixed bleak line, corners twisted upwards, mocking the very nature of a smile.

“You’re…making me feel better. I can’t allow that…I hadn’t expected it.”

Clark looks at him sharply, and squints.  Understanding rapidly dawning on him, along with fast, oncoming nausea. He’s been confused this whole time, wondering why Bruce had sought him out for comfort. But that wasn’t it at all. Bruce is simply looking to be punished and thought Clark would be the best candidate for the job. Clark thinks of earlier, when he had yelled at Bruce, and Bruce had been so serene and he feels sick.

He just wants to help.

“Bruce.” Clark swallows, and says “you know Alfred wouldn’t want you to blame yourself.”

“No,” Bruce agrees softly. “He wouldn’t. But let me ask you, Superman. Can I call myself a hero when I didn’t even notice my own butler running himself into the ground? When I caused it?”

“There wasn’t anything you could’ve done differently.”

 “Bullshit. Alfred’s getting old, I should have planned for this.”

“And then what?” Clark demands. “You plan for it, and Alfred still gets sick, and we’re back where we started.”

He glares at Bruce, who is staring unseeingly out of the window, but the heat doesn't last. His eyes soften as he watches Bruce's mask crack -finally - into silent, mournful grief. Not the face of a taciturn vigilante, or even a playboy billionaire, but a son, worried about losing the only family he has left.

“Then what am I supposed to do?” Bruce asks, voice simultaneously younger and older than Clark has ever heard it. “I can’t fix this.” He admits, “I don’t know how to.”

“I understand, Bruce.” Clark says quietly. “Believe me, I do.”

“Sickness and divorce aren’t the same thing,” Bruce says flatly.

“No, they aren’t,” Clark agrees soberly. “But feeling like you’ve failed is pretty universal.”

“And what do you know about failure, Clark?”

Clark’s eyes flit over the profile of Bruce’s face, absorbing the pain, and anger, and sleeplessness, and the mind behind it all that Clark sometimes disliked but could never hate.

“I know it hurts like hell,” he says honestly.

Bruce nods. Once.

The silence between them now isn’t tense or oppressive as it was before, but is strangely comfortable. For a moment Clark can almost pretend --as his heart treacherously wants to -- that they’re indeed the old friends they seem to be playing at, but reality creeps through nonetheless. Bruce’s parents’ grave is just visible over the horizon through the window, and the rain continues to pummel down relentlessly. Clark can hear the house creak from the strain, complaining. And as they watch evening turn into night, Clark notes idly, that there are no stars in Gotham. 

“I have some business to attend to now,” Bruce says blandly, drawing Clark's attention from the swaying trees. Through the clarity of night, the reflection of Bruce's face is once again unreadable. His eyes look as opaque as tar, and the painting of his father stares down at them. “I trust you know your way out.”

Clark opens his mouth, but finds there isn’t anything else to say. He knows he’s overstayed his welcome. Wryly, he reflects on how even emotionally distressed and functioning on little sleep, Bruce is still, as always, in control. Unsure of what to make of the encounter, Clark turns to leave, but halts when a hand catches his wrist. For an imprecise amount of time, (Clark isn't sure, he feels off-kilter) Bruce’s eyes bore into his own before they go back to the night sky. And perhaps it is easier that way, but Clark can never bring himself to prefer it.

“You asked earlier if there was anything you could do.”

“Yes,” Clark says, waiting, looking at Bruce through the reflection of the glass with all the restlessness of a child waiting for their reward. “I meant what I said Bruce. Anything at all.”

“I’m visiting Alfred on Tuesday. I’d like you to join me.” The corner of Bruce’s lips lift briefly. “I’m sure Alfred will appreciate the company as well. Will you come?”

Clark nods, bewildered, but also flattered and pleased. “I’d be honoured.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up at eleven.”

The grip on Clark’s wrist loosens abruptly and Bruce walks away. Clark watches Bruce until he disappears around the corner, and then shoves his hands in his pockets and turns in the opposite direction. Outside he squints up at the sky, and Gotham pelts him with hail in response, but Clark finds he doesn’t mind it so much anymore.

 


End file.
